Bereft: Demise

9 | Of Foe or Friend

I leaned upon the railing of the mezzanine, watching those who meandered below. 

In the hour that I had been lingering there—unwilling to pass by Peroth's office on the way upstairs and unsure if I should venture downstairs—I had seen more than a dozen people cross the foyer and go about their morning routine. Most were of a slender, dainty caste, their hair long and glossy, their faces slender and symmetrical. Each was invariably pretty. The men were effeminate, and the women had voices like small bells chiming on the harness of a sleigh. 

Fairies? I silently questioned as I watched a couple saunter by as they left the dining room to duck into the curtain of crystal beads. Aos Sí? In the myths, they were always quite mischievous and deadly to weak-minded humans. Perhaps I have only become inured to strange things, but these people do not appear so perfidious. 

I tried to rationalize the differences I deciphered in the svelte creatures. While they were all uniformly lovely, various groups and individuals had different characteristics. The ones with darker hair were generally lighter skinned and had silver markings on their throats or faces. Those with light hair had warmer, deeper skin tones. They ranged from gold to bronze to russet. One slender man had skin so rich in hue it was almost indigo. When he glanced upward, I saw he had vivid, cat-like green eyes. 

From what I gathered, the various Aos Sí had different lineages and origins. They spoke different dialects, and didn't mesh well with one another. Their dislike wasn't flagrant nor openly obvious, but I could detect it in the shift of their bodies when one group would come near another, and in the way their eyes would narrow or their lips would come together into tight, irritated lines.

Whatever the reason for their mutual dislike, the Aos Sí all lived in Crow's End. I couldn't fathom why. 

I rested my head against the wooden rails as my eyes slid shut. I tried remembering more of what I had learned about the Aos Sí and their original myths, but my thoughts were disorganized from jet lag and anxiety. The manor's heat pressed at the back of my neck, leaving small spots of perspiration, and a hand touched my nape, ghosting over the fine hair like an exhaled breath.

Startled, I sat up with a reprimand ready—but I was alone on the balcony. The lights suspended within the wall sconces seemed to laugh at my confusion. 

"This place isn't right," I mumbled under my breath, placing a protective hand against my neck. The house radiated cynical amusement with an edge of violence. It sensed that I was an outsider, and it did not know what to make of my presence, so it mocked me. 

I bounced my forehead against the rails. I was going mad. I had ascribed sentient attributes to a house and was internally debating the pros and cons of introducing myself to the manor to see if I could win its favor. I was going utterly mad. 

Or dying. The thought came unbidden to my mind, and I slid my hand from my neck to my beleaguered ribs. The wound there was not getting better. It wouldn't get better. As Amoroth had explained, Balthier had laced the cut with liminal magic. That magic would not allow the injury to repair itself or for other forms of magic to mend the wound. It would persist until it killed me.

People at death's door often have odd or crazed thoughts. Remember imagining there was a beast consuming all sounds and noises just before Darius saved your life?

I bit my lip and dug my fingers into my side until the bruises protested. Stop it, Sara, I told myself. You're not dead. Not yet. Figure out what to do to help Darius survive this.